


A Revelation

by MiraMira



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Correspondence, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Flirting, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7286167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meeting Thomas Jefferson is one thing.  Compelling him to include women in the sequel, Angelica discovers, is another matter entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Revelation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csichick_2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csichick_2/gifts).



> I'm sorry Jefferson insisted on being a bit of an ass here, csichick_2, but I do hope you enjoy.
> 
> This story draws some of its inspiration from the Chernow biography, Joseph Ellis's American Sphinx, and various other pieces of research into Angelica and Jefferson's lives. That said, while I would like to pretend that any historical inaccuracies and anachronisms are artistic license on my part, they are more likely errors, for which I apologize.
> 
> Also contains background (unrequited?) Angelica/Alexander.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?”

“Ambassador Jefferson asked if I would take his daughters shopping for gowns,” Angelica responds, not bothering to look away from the mirror or otherwise interrupt her nightly routine as she answers her husband. To be precise, Ambassador Jefferson said his daughters _“would benefit from your sophisticated eye and elegant style,”_ but she doesn't think John needs quite that level of detail.

“Will he be in attendance?”

“I certainly hope so, since he didn't tell me how much he plans to spend on this excursion.” She doesn't expect John to join in her laughter. But as it dies off into an uncomfortable silence, she sets down her hairbrush and turns to study him. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” Any other acquaintance of John's might take this statement at face value. Angelica waits patiently for him to complete the thought. “You've been talking with him quite a bit, is all.”

Ah. Perhaps the details aren't so irrelevant, then. And if John has noticed – John, whose only remark on her volumnious correspondence with Alexander is how nice it is she takes such an interest in her sister's well-being – she can imagine what the rumors throughout the rest of Paris must be. Not that Parisian high society ever lets a little thing like believability get in the way of a good piece of gossip, but... “Do you want me to say no? If I'm suddenly taken ill, I'm sure the Ambassador will find another chaperone.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” says John, with what might almost pass for sarcasm. “But no. He's a connection worth cultivating. And I trust your judgment.”

 _I trust your judgment._ Whenever Angelica needs to remind herself why she became Mrs. John Church, it isn't the money she thinks of, or even the opportunities it affords, but moments like this one. “Thank you,” she tells him, startling him with a kiss.

Still, as she settles into bed, it is not her husband's face she sees when she closes her eyes.

 

 

~

“Ambassador Jefferson...”

“Tom, please.” The gentleman in question flashes a brilliant smile that briefly erases all memory of why Angelica is irritated with him, only to renew the annoyance tenfold when she remembers. And to think: only minutes before, she'd been delighted when Patsy and Polly retreated to the back of the shop to examine fabric samples with the seamstress, if slightly suspicious from their shared glances and giggles that this is a familiar tactic whenever their father desires privacy.

“Ambassador Jefferson,” she repeats, with slow and careful emphasis this time. “Are you aware this is the third time you've deflected my attempts to ask your opinion on the new Constitution?”

Jefferson grimaces. “Politics are a nasty business, madam. I can't stomach the thought of inflicting such indelicate matters on a member of the fairer sex. Particularly one as fair as present company.”

Her heart gives a traitorous flutter at the compliment. Fortunately, her head is made of sterner stuff – and her tongue is sharper still. “I must say, I'm disappointed. From what I hear, you and Abigail Adams correspond regularly on the subject.”

“Mrs. Adams is the exception that proves the rule,” Jefferson parries. That smile of his is beginning to look more like a cocksure smirk. “The years she spent managing her husband's estate have given her a uniquely masculine perspective, and I hold her in much the same esteem and fellowship as John Adams himself.”

“I see,” says Angelica, in her coolest, most controlled tones. “In other words, you have no interest in fucking her, so she doesn't really count.”

Alas, reducing one of the greatest thinkers of the age to a bug-eyed stare and a few stammered monosyllables does little to assuage her fury. “Excuse me,” she manages at last, through a rapidly clenching jaw. “I feel a headache coming on. Please give my regrets to the girls; I'm sure whatever they select will be lovely.” She straightens her skirts and gathers her own purchases, delaying her departure just long enough to issue a final parting shot over her shoulder: “That is, if you trust them to form their own opinions.”

Only after she is safely out of sight of the dress shop does she risk closing her eyes for an instant. Sure enough, when she opens them again, hot tears clusters at the corners of her vision. She forces them back with a single, fierce swipe and strides onward.

 

 

~

Angelica looks down at the torrent of words that has been pouring from her pen for the past half hour as though coming out of a dream, and discovers she's forgotten whether this letter was intended for Alexander or Eliza. With a groan, she wads up the stationery and hurls it into a corner to join the other failed drafts.

Of course, she knows even a well-written missive won't grant her more than a temporary catharsis. What she wants is Alexander's righteous rage and cutting barbs, or Eliza's soothing reassurances and sisterly embrace. What she needs is the only two people in the world who truly understand her here, not an ocean away.

That, she decides, is what galls her most about her exchange with Jefferson. She'd allowed flattery and her fascination with the man's work to lure her into believing she might have found a kindred spirit. Instead, it turns out the great apostle of democracy is just another leering schoolboy who thinks wealth and a few broadly applicable words of praise are sufficient to charm a woman into the sole form of interaction that interests him. Worst of all, it nearly worked.

So preoccupied is she by these thoughts, she barely hears the maid's anxious rapping on the doorframe. “Beg pardon, ma'am. I told the gentleman at the door you weren't seeing visitors like you asked, but he insisted on leaving these.”

Before she can respond, the maid sets something down on the desk and beats a hasty retreat. She blinks as the blur of purple, white, and green suddenly blocking her field of vision resolves itself into the most extravagant bouquet she has ever received.

No, not just a bouquet, she realizes. A message. Here are purple hyacinths, laden with remorse. Sprigs of ivy, expressing the hope of continued friendship and affection. And irises, overflowing with noble compliments and virtues, not least among them valor and wisdom.

The accompanying note is almost superfluous; its signature even more so. Nonetheless, she peruses it with care.

_Madam -_

_I trust you are feeling better, and beg you to accept my abject and most humble regrets for leaving our conversation in such an unsatisfactory fashion. If you will permit me to make it up to you over tea tomorrow, I promise you a discussion worthy of a fellow seeker of truth and enlightenment._

_Yours sincerely,_

_T. Jefferson_

_P.S. In regard to the Constitution, I find much to recommend it, but also much that might subvert the cause of liberty. I look forward to elaborating when we meet again, and to your observations._

She taps her pen thoughtfully for a moment, then smiles as she pulls out a fresh sheet of paper:

_Dear Tom,_

_Apology accepted. But this time, I choose the activity, too._

_\- Angelica_


End file.
